


Please, John

by WinterTheWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blowjobs, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, It's fanfic and we'll bareback if we want to, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, No one cares that's who, Post-The Six Thatchers, Rimming, Smut, Spoilers, Unsafe practices but who cares, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 04:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: Sherlock knows John doesn't want to see him, but he can't stay away. Not anymore. Not again.





	1. Pleading

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it's 3:30am and I have been whimpering to myself about Sherlock since I saw the episode so I decided to write the fix-it fic this damn show desperately needs. This is sloppy, unedited, filthy, and romantic, and I present it to you all proudly. Heed the tags, spoilers ahead. 
> 
> If you know me because you're a reader of my ongoing series, Building Happily Ever After, have no fear: I will still be updating later today. Just needed to get this out of my system. 
> 
> Also! I made a writer account on twitter, so do follow for updates/questions/info/etc. @WinterTheWriter. 
> 
> Enjoy, my glorious fellow porn-junkies.

“John, please. You must understand, I— this wasn’t part of the plan, /none/ of this was part of the plan. I never meant for anyone to get hurt, truly I didn’t. Especially not her. Especially not — not Mary. I’m sorry. I was stupid and I should’ve stopped when she told me to but I couldn’t. I had to explain, John, don’t you see? If I can explain the problem, I’ve solved it, and I need to solve it. Besides, you can’t /reasonably/ have expected me to know she’d step in front of the bullet like that, could you? …No. Right. You’re right, that was rude. Forgive me, John.

Please. Forgive me. 

All I’ve ever wanted to do was keep you safe. The three of you, I mean. I took my vows seriously and I…I didn’t see this coming. That’s it. I just…didn’t see this coming. Mycroft was right about me — I’m really not that intelligent, am I? After all, who knows where you’d be without my meddling? Happier, definitely. Not a widower. 

It makes sense, you never wanting to see me. It does. Because that’s just it, isn’t it? You are so much safer without me and infinitely better off. But I’ve never claimed to be a selfless man, John. And I’ve never been able to act like one, not with this. Not with you. I don’t want to lose you again. I’ve fought so hard for so long to get back here and fix things, be /best friends/, just the two of us against the rest of the world—….Apologies. I’m not…used to sentiment. I’m not used to feeling like this. It hurts, John. It hurts like a bullet, and isn’t that ironic in all the worst ways? 

All I’m asking for is a chance. Let me redeem myself. Let me be better. I’ll do whatever you want — change Rosamund’s nappies, do the shopping, smoke slightly less, anything. I can’t promise I’ll ever deserve your friendship, John Watson, but I can promise to die trying. Because the truth is, well, and this is— I was supposed to tell you on the tarmac but I chickened out — the reality of the situation is —….

Please. 

Just open the door.”


	2. Begging.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight.

“So? What is it?” John bites out the words through clenched teeth, a dangerous mockery of a smile twisting his lips. His hands are clenched into fists on his thighs and he sits on the very edge of the couch. Sherlock isn’t certain he likes being afraid of John Watson. “Sherlock.” 

Answering. Right. What was he asked? “What is what?” Sherlock replies slowly, still hovering near the door he’d only just been let through. Molly’d looked pleased to see him, but she’d quickly grabbed Rosamund and left, muttering something about babysitting under her breath. 

“What you were going to say. On the tarmac. That you…apparently, ‘chickened out of,’” he air-quotes. Sherlock clears his throat loudly and looks anywhere but at John, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. God, what he wouldn’t give for a fix right about now. 

“Unimportant. I don’t even remember, truly. I was bluffing to get you to open the door.” Sherlock desperately hopes he sounds as matter-of-fact as he intended. 

 “Right, yeah.” John barks out a short, harsh laugh and nods his head, leaning back in his seat and regarding Sherlock coldly. “So after you get my wife killed, you come here and lie to me to force contact? Lovely, Sherlock. Really.” If he notices the minute flinch Sherlock gave at the words, he didn’t mention it. 

“I didn’t…/get her killed/, John. She stepped in front of the bullet.”

“And you let her.” 

Sherlock’s head snaps to John, eyes narrowing as he steps forward. “For god’s sake, John, how much time to react do you think I had?!” As soon as the outburst is finished, Sherlock mutters out a curse and shakes his head. His posture relaxes by sheer force of will, deep breaths working their way around the lump in his throat. John is silent. Sherlock is grateful. “If I could have saved her, I would. John, I /promise/.” 

“Fat load of good that does now, hmm? You made a vow, Sherlock, and you broke it. You broke it just like you’ve broken every other promise you’ve made. Of bloody /course/ I don’t want to be /any/where near you, you /bastard/!” John’s voice is a shout by the end of it and he stands up, glaring at Sherlock like he could set him on fire with rage alone. His hands, still clenched in fists, are completely steady, but his eyes…oh, Sherlock is stupid. He is very, very stupid, because all this time and he hasn’t even noticed that his best friend is crying. 

“John—,” Sherlock starts, but something flickers in John’s gaze before he looks away and rubs furiously at his eyes, exhaling loudly. Waiting, Sherlock swallows thickly, willing his own lower lip not to quiver. 

“Don’t, Sherlock,” John implores him, shaky and quiet and very not good. “Just…don’t.” 

In lieu of replying, Sherlock walks a slow circuit around the room and lets the brief reprieve give them both the chance to collect themselves. He sits on the couch, right where John was, and scratches the inside of his elbow, pulls his coat tighter around himself. After a few moments of silence, John chews on his lip, nods to himself, and straightens up with the resolve of a soldier — and that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? — before turning to Sherlock. He does not sit, and Sherlock does not invite him to. 

“I almost cheated on her, you know,” he says finally, evenly. Sherlock nods slowly and looks at the carpet, the toe of his shoe idly kicking at a loose thread. 

“I know.”

“Of course you do.”

“Of course I do.” 

“…Did she?” 

Sherlock’s foot stills. He looks up at John and meets his eyes, forcing all the sincerity and sympathy he can into the look. “I don’t know.” 

John smiles a fake, wry smile before pursing his lips and nodding. “Just as well, then. I was going to tell her, before the aquarium. Nothing happened, but I was going to tell her.” 

“You’re a good man, John. She knew that.”

“Did she?”

“Even if she didn’t, she was hardly in a place to judge.” The snark slips out unchecked and Sherlock braces himself to be yelled at, but instead John just chuckles — chuckles! — and sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of Sherlock’s seat. 

“I never really forgave her. For shooting you, I mean. Your heart stopped. That wasn’t surgery, that was attempted — and briefly successful — murder. She killed you.”

“Yes, well, there are worse things to do.”

“Not to me.” 

Silence stretches between them. It takes Sherlock a lot longer than usual to process those words, and doing so makes his chest ache and his palms sweat. He takes a deep breath and leans back, choosing his next question carefully, but before he can, John cuts in. 

“I’m sorry. For what I said. For how I’ve been acting. I suppose it’s just easy to blame you.”

“Oh, cheers.”

“No, not—,” John pauses to laugh and something loosens in Sherlock’s gut, “—not like that, you git. Shut up. Let me…do this right. It hurts. God, Sherlock, it hurts so bloody much. I watched the mother of my child die in front of me. My daughter will never know the woman who gave her life. My whole world turned upside-down right then and there, and the worst part of it is that it felt like — /feels/ like — my fault. Not yours, mine. But that’s terrifying, yeah? That’s terrifying and difficult and you were there and I lashed out. I lashed out. Blaming you meant I didn’t have to blame myself.” 

“…John, forgive me if I’m missing something, but how could any of this have possibly been your fault?” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Because I didn’t love her, Sherlock. I never loved her. And after she shot you, well, I…hated her.” 

“You forgave—,”

“We had a child on the way.”

Sherlock nods slowly as he digests the information, brows furrowed. He stares at his own hands, unsure of what to do next, and isn’t that just novel? “I wasn’t bluffing,” he says finally. Something’s taken over inside of him and he’s on autopilot now. Call it an educated guess, a desperate grasp of hope, but he thinks… “Earlier, it wasn’t a bluff. There is…something. I wanted to say.”

John blinks and tilts his head in confusion, arms crossing over his chest as he sits up straighter. “Go on, then.” 

“…Promise not to hate me? Or…I don’t know, throw something at me?” 

“Yes, Sherlock, I promise.”

“Because this is hard, John. This is…hard. Very hard. Possibly the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to say.” 

“Alright, and now you’re scaring me.” 

“It’s just that…well, John, I…” Sherlock trails off and squeezes his eyes shut tightly, forces the words past his lips. “I love you. John, I’m…in…love with you.” After a few agonizingly long moments of silence, Sherlock hazards a look at John, nerves aching in his stomach. 

John stares at him expressionlessly before “hmm”-ing and looking down. “No,” he says, and stands up, turning and taking a few steps away. 

“John?” he asks hesitantly, standing up from the couch. 

“No. /No./ You don’t get to— /no/.” 

“You promised you wouldn’t—,”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, I don’t hate you. God, you are /thick/ sometimes.” 

Wrong-footed and frightened, Sherlock stays put, standing mute in front of the couch. When he can finally force his tongue to cooperate, he manages a quiet, “I don’t understand.” 

John sighs loudly and rubs a hand over his face before turning to Sherlock, face stern and hands held behind his back. Parade’s rest. Soldier. Always. “Is this a trick, then? Another one of your…your /experiments/?”

“What? No, John, I—,”

“So you mean it, then.”

“I—,”

“Say it. Say you mean it.” 

“I—mean it. Of course I mean it. Why would I…why would you—,”

“Because, you daft man,” John says, his tone hushed and almost-angry as he advances rather quickly towards Sherlock, “I have been in love with you since Angelo put that bloody candle in front of us. And all this time — /all this time/ — I assumed you /fucking meant it/ when you said you were married to your work. So if you mean that, if you really, truly mean that,” he pauses, and by now he’s toe-to-toe with Sherlock who feels an entirely different set of nerves vibrating through him, “I’m going to kiss you.” 

“I mean it,” Sherlock whispers, staring down at John with wide eyes, hands shaking at his sides. “I mean it, John. I mean it. I love you. I mean—,”

John kisses him before he can finish and it’s better than he could’ve ever possibly imagined. He has one hand twined into Sherlock’s hair, holding him close, and the other grips onto his hip. His stubble scratches against Sherlock’s skin and his lips are chapped and rough and warm and it’s more than a fire in his gut, it’s an explosion, it’s an atomic bomb. Sherlock barely knows how to move his lips, frozen with lust and inexperience, but he grips onto John’s shirt with all he has and lets out a breathy moan into the kiss, pressing closer to him. When John pulls back it’s only to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s, whispering harshly into the scant space between their lips. 

“My bedroom is right down the hall, Sherlock.”

“I’m still a virgin, John,” Sherlock breathes out, pulling him closer because he /has/ to, their hips bumping. 

“Would you like to change that?”

“Oh god yes.”


	3. Gasping.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The making up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is the last chapter of the actual story -- chapter 4 is just a funny little extra tidbit.)

John undresses both of them slowly, despite the passion and need that brews between them, and by the time he’s finished and Sherlock is sprawled on his back on the mattress, he’s shaking with want and gasping out little, breathless moans with every touch John skates across his skin. He grasps at every part of him he can, legs spreading wantonly and head tipping back as John slots their hips together with a curse and presses hot, wet kisses down the length of Sherlock’s neck, tongue darting out to lick across his pulse point before biting down hard. Sherlock arches up against him with a strangled moan, nails scraping across John’s scalp. 

“John,” he pants out, hips bucking up when their cocks rub together, pre-cum making them slide deliciously. “John, I need— I need—,”

“What do you need, baby?” John husks, licking over the mark he made before kissing slowly down his chest. “I know what you need,” he continues, tongue laving over the indentation of his bullet wound before he kisses it tenderly and moves on, “I know /exactly/ what you need, Sherlock.” 

“God, yes, /please/,” Sherlock whimpers, lifting his head to watch John’s journey downwards with hooded, frantic eyes. He’s not even sure what he’s asking for, not really. All he knows is that he doesn’t want John to stop. He never wants John to stop. John breathes out a low laugh against his stomach, nosing down the planes of his abdomen before he bites his hip sharply. Sherlock grunts and slams his head back against the pillows, cock hard and throbbing as it bobs near John’s cheek. With a satisfied hum, John turns his head to the side and slowly, teasingly licks up the drops of pre-cum that slide down his length, seeming to delight in the high, drawn-out moan Sherlock lets out at the action. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” John murmurs, lips brushing against the crown of Sherlock’s cock with each word. “Since you’re so /virginal/, I’m going to take you apart with my mouth until you’re shaking and crying and after you come for me, Sherlock, I’m going to open you up and fuck you while you’re still all boneless and pliant, and then I’m going to make you come again. How does that sound?” 

Sherlock couldn’t nod faster if he tried, agreeing with every very interested fiber of his being. 

John smirks and, without any word of warning, ducks his head and licks a broad, hot stripe across Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock shouts out at the sudden shock of pleasure, hands scrabbling for purchase on the duvet as he plants his feet on the bed and rocks his hips. Taking that as a sigh to continue, John braces his forearm across Sherlock’s hips to hold him down before tonguing him in earnest, alternating between licking kitten-like around the edges of his hole and thrusting the tip of his tongue in and out of him, growling as he does so. Sherlock lets out a steady stream of curses that quickly dissolve into high-pitched moans and gasps, one hand leaving the duvet in favor of twining into John’s hair. It’s almost too good — that hot, wet firmness teasing him open, John’s nose pressing against his perineum with every movement, even the unyielding strength of the forearm that pins him down. This won’t last long. This can’t last long. 

Sherlock mumbles something unintelligible as the pleasure curls hotly in his gut, tightening at the base of his spine and making his toes curl and his thighs tremble. John notices and, impossibly, doubles his enthusiasm, fucking his tongue into Sherlock’s hole in earnest. God, he’s close, he’s so close, and right when he thinks he’s going to explode, John swiftly replaces his tongue with two fingers and swallows Sherlock’s cock down to the root. With a shout that cracks at the end, Sherlock comes into John’s mouth, bucking and writhing beneath him as static fills his mind and pleasure so acute it’s almost painful lances through him. 

When he comes down, the first thing he hears is the snick of a lube bottle opening before cold, wet fingers push inside of him. He moans weakly and tosses his head to the side, humming when John kisses up his neck before whispering into his ear. “Alright?” he asks, both fingers stilling. Still beyond words, Sherlock just nods and gives a minute thrust of his hips, and John whispers, “Beautiful,” against his lobe as he moves his fingers once more. After far too long, John finally replaces his fingers with his cock, the hard, thick length splitting Sherlock open and making ragged, desperate breaths puff from his mouth as he grips onto John’s biceps. 

John stills his hips and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s, their noses nudging together gently. “I love you,” he murmurs, a gentle smile curling his lips. “We should’ve been doing this years ago.” 

“Your fault for getting married,” Sherlock jokes back, breathless and airy. John’s smile widens and he rolls his eyes fondly, tilting his head to peck his lips.

“Berk.” 

 

“I love you too. …Now, if you please…,” he trails off, lifting his hips and inadvertently drawing John in deeper. The expression on John’s face darkens to one of pure lust before he draws his hips back slowly, almost tauntingly, and snaps them forward. Sherlock /yelps/ in surprised pleasure, gasping out an “again,” and when John /does/ do it again, he moans shakily and wraps his legs around John’s waist. 

John starts up a steady rhythm, harsh grunts and pants escaping with every hard thrust he lands. The crown of his cock drags across Sherlock’s prostate until his eyes are rolling back in his head for pleasure, teeth gritted as he moans sharply. John speeds up, eyes almost crazed, and Sherlock scrapes his nails down John’s back in his pleasure, head tossed back as he gasps out John’s name and bucks his hips. 

“/Fuck/, you’re tight — so goddamn tight for me, my Sherlock, /my Sherlock/—,”

“Yes — yes — /ah/, God, John, you feel so — ah, /ah/, yours, I’m yours, I’ve always been yours—/ah/!” 

“Yeah, that’s it,” John licks a filthy stripe along Sherlock’s jaw before catching his lips, fucking his tongue into his mouth in rhythm with his hips. Sherlock practically goes molten beneath him, sagging into the mattress and nearly sobbing with pleasure as he squeezes his eyes shut tightly, clutching John’s waist. 

Adding a dirty grind to the end of his thrusts, John pulls away from his mouth and rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, moaning against his skin as he grips Sherlock’s hips tight enough to bruise, the rhythm faltering and turning to a frantic rut as he starts to get close. The hard muscle of his abdomen rubs Sherlock’s cock with every movement and he’s crying out and begging, chanting John’s name like a mantra as that pressure builds up in him again. “C’mon, baby,” John rasps, worrying the skin on his shoulder between his teeth. “So close, I’m so close. Wanna feel you come around me. Can you — /fuck/ — can you do that for me? Come on, come for me.” 

“John, John, John, yesyesyesyes/yes/—,” and just like that, the coil snaps and Sherlock practically howls, back arching clear off the bed as he spills between them. John roars out his name as he comes, wet heat spreading inside of him as his hips still and shake. Sherlock’s floating, higher than he’s ever been, full of pleasure and exhaustion and /love/, so much love he can hardly take it. 

After a few minutes he’s dimly aware of John gently rubbing a damp washcloth across his skin, cleaning up their mess before it’s tossed aside and he’s pulled into a warm embrace. Sherlock sighs in content and burrows into it, nose pressed into John’s neck as their legs twine together. They lie there in silence. John gently kisses his head and rubs his back, but they don’t say anything. They don’t need to. For the first time in far too long, there’s nothing to be said.

For the first time in far too long, everything is okay.


	4. The End.

“John?” Sherlock asks him the next morning, both of them still curled together in bed. “What do you think would’ve happened? If I hadn’t chickened out on the tarmac.” 

John hums sleepily and tightens his arms around him, kissing the crown of his head. “This, but in Mycroft’s car.” 

“Oh. ….Can we still do that?”

“Obviously.”


End file.
